#OldLight!Salem

[pawnshopsouls]

The look on his old student's face was priceless and Salem couldn't help a hoot of laughter at his bewilderment.

"Yeah, who'd a' thought huh?" he laughed, making his way up the mountain path. "Spent years keepin' the Fallen on different paths, away from humans on my mountains. Didn't expect teh get followers wantin' teh join in the effort 'n' return the favor. One day they find out I'm really human, not Fallen. Some left, some wanted teh fight but were honor-bound teh keep their oath a' peace on my mountain. Things were dicey fer a bit but then... one day... some a' the ones who left came back wantin' teh be part a' what I was doin', honestly this time. One thing led teh another 'n' now I got a whole house workin' with me, callin' me the 'Mountain Kell'. We're the House a' Mountains now, good name fer a strong house."

He looked back over his shoulder and huffed at the Dregen. "Everythin' they've done? Drifter, don't tell me yeh've sided with those City folks prissy clean view of us. You of all people know we Lightbearers ain't the cleanest slates, even with the Fallen at our backs."

Salem paused and looked up, giving a sharp whistle as he gazed at something in the distance. "Yer friend, Faith, could learn a' thing or two. Ain't no lightbearer invulnerable teh pack tactics. Not when the guy in charge knows his business."

It has been a long time since Salem had heard from Drifter, but he’d since heard a lot about him. He’d heard of the rise of Dregen Yor and the followers he’d gained after his death. Ones who’d turned their back on the Light, the City, on being what the new bloods called “Guardians”.

He did not approve. Not of the warlords who abused the people and each other, not of the Iron Lords who crushed any light bearer who didn’t share their cause, and certainly not the Dregen who wore the blood of fellow light eaters without remorse. At least so it seemed to him.

But here he was, the closest thing he had to a student, bearing those same colors… it was heartbreaking but something had to be done.

“Yer a long way from home, Dregen,” he called from his vantage point. “I thought I made it clear light crushers weren’t welcome on my mountain.”

The man who stood before Salem was not the same as he had been so many years ago. Once shorn hair was now long, and dark, tied up with a red string. Several new scars lined his face, and even though he smiles at Salem, the smile is sharp as knives.

“Not even to see an old friend? I’m surprised you’re still up here, old man, surprised you haven’t moved into the City yet.”

Dredgen Hope puts his hands on his hips, pushing the long, heavy coat back slightly to reveal the gun at his hip. “I ain’t here to cause trouble. Just wanna chat. Actually, I really just wanted to see if you were still here.”

For a moment, just a second the smile fades. “I am glad you’re still kickin’. Sure would be a shame if anything happened to ya.”

[pawnshopsouls]

“Hey! Old man! I got your supplies!” The man that was once called Hope was grinning in the doorway of Salem’s hut, arms full of boxes that he promptly sets on the table.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” His hands were still bandaged where the frost bite had taken hold, but he seemed to be managing well, for the most part.

(For dark ages!salem!)

@take-a-gambit

Light spilled into the cave-carved home of the old light as Drifter made his way. The place was warm and cozy, as usual. New spice jars sat on the shelves while a gentle fire crackled in the hearth, keeping warm the everpresent snow-melting pot. However, despite the door being unlocked and the room being freshly warmed, the old light and his ghost were nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, quite a bit," a distorted voice rasped as what looked like a 6-foot Fallen Wraith dropped down into the snow just outside the door. It wore a tattered gray tunic, white paint smeared across its front in an emblem unlike any fallen house yet seen. A jagged line made a two-peaked mountain, a single circle at its center, and a set of two lines making a base beneath it. In its hand it held an energy spear, a specialized fallen tool not many bothered to take up.

"Now don't shoot me," the Fallen said, raising a hand as he stepped inside. "It took me ages teh get this get up here teh work!"

[pawnshopsouls]

The old light perked up at the mention of fresh meat and opened one of the boxes to take a look. “Ohhh, yer spoilin’ me now. Fresh beef up here? Hooo boy, that’ll make great jerky if not stew!”

Stew was a delicacy. Add potatoes, carrots, and a few other things to thicken it up, and it was the bee’s knees. But as Drifter mentioned the weapon, Salem couldn’t help but give a grin. “Oh, no, guns are always welcome,” he said, closing the beef box and putting a hand on his hip. “Spears are only good fer close quarters. Not too great when yeh’ve got snipers ‘n’ riflers barrelin’ yeh down.”

Salem then straightened, popping his back as he looked over at Drifter. “So! Stew or jerky? I’m thinkin’ a quarter of it fer stew ‘n’ the rest fer jerky. I don’t get good, fresh meet often. It’s nice teh know I’m bein’ thought of. Speakin’ of, how’ve yeh been? That shovel doin’ yeh any good?”

“Hey! Old man! I got your supplies!” The man that was once called Hope was grinning in the doorway of Salem’s hut, arms full of boxes that he promptly sets on the table.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” His hands were still bandaged where the frost bite had taken hold, but he seemed to be managing well, for the most part.

(For dark ages!salem!)

@take-a-gambit

Light spilled into the cave-carved home of the old light as Drifter made his way. The place was warm and cozy, as usual. New spice jars sat on the shelves while a gentle fire crackled in the hearth, keeping warm the everpresent snow-melting pot. However, despite the door being unlocked and the room being freshly warmed, the old light and his ghost were nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, quite a bit," a distorted voice rasped as what looked like a 6-foot Fallen Wraith dropped down into the snow just outside the door. It wore a tattered gray tunic, white paint smeared across its front in an emblem unlike any fallen house yet seen. A jagged line made a two-peaked mountain, a single circle at its center, and a set of two lines making a base beneath it. In its hand it held an energy spear, a specialized fallen tool not many bothered to take up.

"Now don't shoot me," the Fallen said, raising a hand as he stepped inside. "It took me ages teh get this get up here teh work!"

[pawnshopsouls]

Salem gave a rattling laugh as he shambled in farther, looking like a proper eliksni as he closed the door behind him. “Very carefully,” the old light answered and set the spear aside, deactivating its blade before carefully removing the fallen helmet. From beneath the helmet, came Salem, grinning like a cat with cream.

“Not bad huh?” he coughed, still grinning at the startled fella, “I’ve been workin’ on my Fallen impression fer a while, though it helps when yeh’ve got a few friends workin’ on the other side.”

Carefully, he hung the ether helmet on a hat rack peg and shuffled over to the table. “Ooooh, yeh brought some good stuff!“ he enthused, grinning over the boxes. “What all’ve yeh got?”

“Hey! Old man! I got your supplies!” The man that was once called Hope was grinning in the doorway of Salem’s hut, arms full of boxes that he promptly sets on the table.

“Anything interesting happen while I was gone?” His hands were still bandaged where the frost bite had taken hold, but he seemed to be managing well, for the most part.

(For dark ages!salem!)

@take-a-gambit

Light spilled into the cave-carved home of the old light as Drifter made his way. The place was warm and cozy, as usual. New spice jars sat on the shelves while a gentle fire crackled in the hearth, keeping warm the everpresent snow-melting pot. However, despite the door being unlocked and the room being freshly warmed, the old light and his ghost were nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, quite a bit," a distorted voice rasped as what looked like a 6-foot Fallen Wraith dropped down into the snow just outside the door. It wore a tattered gray tunic, white paint smeared across its front in an emblem unlike any fallen house yet seen. A jagged line made a two-peaked mountain, a single circle at its center, and a set of two lines making a base beneath it. In its hand it held an energy spear, a specialized fallen tool not many bothered to take up.

"Now don't shoot me," the Fallen said, raising a hand as he stepped inside. "It took me ages teh get this get up here teh work!"